


Aquamarine Wildling

by wheel_pen



Series: Miscellaneous Sherlock Stories [9]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Multi, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:21:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23916700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheel_pen/pseuds/wheel_pen
Summary: John Watson has vague magical powers. He purchases a new slave, a wildling he calls Aquamarine (actually Sherlock). This story is unfinished.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Miscellaneous Sherlock Stories [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/258127
Comments: 4
Kudos: 9





	Aquamarine Wildling

**Author's Note:**

> The bad words are censored. That’s just how I do things.  
> Inherent in slavery and other forms of subjugation are dubious consent, unhealthy relationships, and violence.  
> I hope you enjoy this AU. I own nothing and appreciate the chance to play in this universe.

He was facedown on the floor of the tent, naked, his new master straddling him. Naturally he was trying to fight this, despite the futility of it. He’d been beaten by masters, beaten by their guests, beaten by the slave merchants when the masters finally gave up on him. But still he fought, whenever he could. He couldn’t resign himself to the life he was confined to. That was his flaw. His mind was too active to shut down, like the slaves around him. Even though it might actually be better for him. Perhaps that was what his new master had seen in the marketplace. Perhaps that was what he wanted, a dangerous toy who was smarter than he was, who would always be plotting something.

If so, best to give him his money’s worth.

“No, stay back, I’m still trying to—“ Someone else in the room, young and feminine by scent, nervous. Good. She should be. Pressure on his shoulder, his hips. The man was shorter than him but more muscular, better fed. Westerner playing in the desert among the savages, wealthy of course. “Shh, calm down, I’m not going to hurt you.” Wasn’t that exactly what someone who was going to hurt you would say? “I know you can understand me. You’re injured. I want to help you.” Of course he did; it was no fun playing with a broken toy. He would fix it first, then try to break it in his own way. “Calm down. Can you calm down for me?” His voice was measured, even, his whole weight pressing down the slave’s body. His hand started to run through his hair, filthy though it must me. “Shh, that’s it, calm down. I want to help you.”

He didn’t _mean_ to calm down, didn’t _want_ to calm down. He meant to keep fighting. “That’s it, good boy. You know I just want to help you.” He couldn’t give in, just because the man’s voice was soothing, his touch gentle. Anyone could fake that temporarily. He heard a whine and was ashamed to realize it was coming from his own throat. “I know, you’re safe now,” his new master assured him. “You’re injured and I’m going to help you. Molly’s going to help you. You’ll let Molly help you, won’t you?”

Molly approached behind him. He _was_ injured, it was better _not_ to be injured; that was simple logic. Once he wasn’t injured he could think faster, plan better, resist more fully—There were blisters on his feet and they burned suddenly, and he let out a howl.

“Sorry,” Molly said, with regret in her tone.

“Hey, hey, it’s alright,” his new master said, stroking his hair. “I know it hurts. I know. But Molly’s trying to help you. Sometimes that hurts first. Do you understand? Hmm? Come on, answer me.” He pulled his hands back and the slave nodded slightly, only once, and the hands returned, kneading the back of his neck and his scalp. “Good boy. That’s right.” He sounded delighted with the acknowledgement.

Molly touched the lashes on the back of his thighs and he made the loudest noise possible, while keeping his mouth shut, his fists clenching the blanket beneath him. “Sorry,” she said again, miserably.

“It’s alright, you’ll be alright soon,” his master assured him. “Molly is very good at this.” His skin stung again but he resisted the instinct to jerk away or kick; his mater noticed. “Good boy, that’s good, you know we’re trying to help.” His master swung off him, the loss of warmth and pressure disorienting, and he settled himself on the floor on his stomach, facing the slave. He continued massaging his head and neck. “What’s your name, then? Come on, you must have a name.”

Molly scooted between his legs, probing a tender area, and he couldn’t help but cry out, even as he fought, now, to keep himself still. Tears blurred his eyes as he tried to focus on his master—open face, tanned, red-and-white checked headdress like the locals wore, deep blue eyes. “Shh, shh, it’s okay,” he soothed, and he seemed utterly genuine, which was somehow more confusing. “What’s your name? Tell me your name. If you don’t I’ll give you one.” He shook his head, body tense with the effort of not knocking Molly away. He didn’t have a name, not anything he cared about anyway. “Alright then.” His master stared at him pensively. “Aquamarine,” he decided. Bit of a mouthful, really. “You have such beautiful blue eyes—“ They squeezed shut.

“It would be easier if—“ Molly murmured. “—all the damage—“

“Alright.” His master left and he whimpered, involuntary really, he felt dizzy without the anchor of the man’s voice, touch, scent. That was foolish, dangerous, but right now he would cling to anything. Then his master returned, pressing a cup of earthy liquid under his nose. “Drink this, Aquamarine. Come on, drink it.” He drank, messily, suspecting what it was and welcoming it. “Shh, you’ll feel better when you wake up,” his master promised, as an unnatural heaviness suffused his limbs. “Good boy. Good boy, Aquamarine.” _Not good_ , he wanted to respond, to warn, but he couldn’t form the words before sleep overtook him.

**

His eyes popped open, brain instantly processing everything around him without moving further, like a switch had been flipped.

Location: tent, floor, blankets, pillows, dimly lit but not dark, cool, dry, interior room, good quality, unfurnished, alone.

Self: stiff, clean, clothed, fed and watered adequately, no bandages, no pain, mind clear. Leather collar around his neck, new, slightly rigid.

Passage of time: healed injuries indicated weeks, even months—illogical—other evidence suggested only days—also illogical. Double-checking that mind was clear.

Memories: Master, Molly, pain, helping, sold, scents, touch, voice—

Aquamarine.

New name, didn’t matter, people got excited giving new things pretty names. It wore off quickly, became a curse instead of an endearment.

Plans: Test security, test body, explore, locate resources, identify key personnel, push limits, experience discipline, plot escape. Decide where to escape _to_ , and for what purpose.

The first step was moving, which he did cautiously, quietly, until it became apparent this triggered no outside response and he shook his limbs more freely, stretching and testing their usefulness. It was not true he had no pain; but it was slight. He felt almost light-headed without it, like he’d forgotten something he needed. He was clean, too, a curiously bare sensation; he was dressed in a simply shirt and trousers, nothing else, plain and sturdy but well-made and softer than typical slave clothing. The only things in the room were the pillows and blankets he lay on; they weren’t the height of luxury, but soft, durable, serviceable. Good quality, money was at work here, but also pragmatism, a lack of ostentation.

He stood, waiting to become used to it again. His eyes drifted up to the ceiling of the tent, to the soft golden lights in the corners. Where did those _come_ from? Not lanterns or lamps, surely. Frustratingly he couldn’t reach that high and there was nothing to climb on.

A flap in one wall was the way out. Bells attached to it jangled when he pushed through, startling him. A way of alerting the occupant to a visitor, perhaps to request permission to enter. Was a slave afforded such courtesy? The bells appeared easy to remove; being left in place suggested significance. Now he stood in a fabric hallway, also mysteriously lit. Rather elaborate engineering for a tent. No one else passed through but he heard murmurs here and there.

There was another room just across from his and he peered inside, careful not to set off the bells. The room smelled like Molly. He could see several pieces of furniture, a trunk, a low table, a chair back, a rod holding clothing, a wooden folding screen. Behind it there was movement, faint splashing. He slipped inside, drawn by curiosity. Molly had helped him. It was difficult to trust people, the dynamics were always complex, but she _had_ helped him, which was a good start.

A woman came out from behind the screen, but not Molly. Older, plain clothes, no collar, understandably startled by him. He dropped to his knees quickly and bowed his head, expecting a cuff on the ear for the intrusion.

It was not forthcoming. “What’s wrong, Mrs. Hudson?” asked Molly from behind the screen. She peeked around, arm and shoulder bare in the glance he risked upward, and ducked back quickly when she saw him.

“Oh, you gave me quite a turn, young man,” Mrs. Hudson chided him, not severely. “Now you shouldn’t be in here, should you? This is Molly’s room.” She turned his face up to hers. “You are skin and bones, aren’t you?” she tutted. “Here, have a biscuit.” He took it from her and ate it before she could take it back.

Molly appeared from behind the screen, wrapped in a robe; her hair was pinned up and slightly damp—perhaps she’d been bathing. Bathing was permitted, perhaps encouraged—Mrs. Hudson seemed very clean. “It’s alright, Mrs. Hudson, I’ll take him to Master,” she said. “Come on.”

He rose and followed Molly into the hall. “Master said he wanted to see you when you woke up,” she chattered, constantly turning back to look at him. “You were out for three days!” This seemed a long time to her; it matched what his internal clock told him, but wasn’t nearly enough time to feel as well as he did. Triple-checking that mind was clear.

She stopped at another door-flap; he memorized the location in the maze of tent hallways. She jangled the bells cheerfully. “Come in.” He tensed suddenly at his new master’s voice.

“Go on,” Molly hissed, giving him a push, and he ducked inside. She didn’t follow.

His master sat on the floor, leaning against a chair back and manipulating… something… on his lap. Part was buttons he pushed and part was something he stared at that glowed. When he looked up and saw—Aquamarine, he was Aquamarine now—he folded it up and tucked it safely away in a box. “Aquamarine. Come in. Feeling better?” He wore no headdress now; his hair was blond. His boots and trousers were Western style, military influence. His furnishings were like Molly’s but more numerous, better. Weapons, ceremonial. Books. Aquamarine’s eyes lingered on them. “Look around. Do you want—“ He started to rise and Aquamarine froze warily, so his master froze as well, then sat back down. “Alright, I’ll stay here, and you come in.”

Aquamarine edged into the tent, scooting around its edges, never turning his back on his master but taking quick, darting glances around the room. Wealthy Westerner, military and medical background but traveling independently, sensible, not planning to stay long, respectful of local cultures. Aquamarine did not think he seemed like a cruel man. But he had been wrong before.

“How are you feeling?” his master asked again. “Better?” Aquamarine nodded once. “Molly is very skillful,” his master agreed. “My name is John Watson. Say it aloud, please.”

Aquamarine stared at him blankly. He seemed so… firm was the word that came to mind. Very matter-of-fact, as though he expected that _of course_ he would be obeyed, and there was no need to be overbearing about it.

“Aquamarine,” his master prompted after a moment. “You should be able to speak. Repeat my name so if you get lost, you can tell people who you belong to.” He cocked his head to the side slightly. “Do you remember my name?”

Of _course_ he remembered it, the man had just _said_ it! Aquamarine opened his mouth to prove this, then cleared his throat and coughed a little. He wasn’t used to speaking, most people didn’t want that from a wildling.

“Here, have a drink,” his master offered, pouring a cup of tea. He held out the cup and Aquamarine stared at it, then him. Then his master set the cup on the ground, leaning over slightly to put it just beyond arm’s reach.

Aquamarine dropped to his knees and crawled closer, watching for any sudden moves or traps. His master gazed at him curiously; his eyes were deep blue and patient. Aquamarine grabbed the cup and pulled it back to a safer distance, sniffing the tea before he drank it. There was no sense that he could see in drugging or poisoning him now, but masters often did things that made little sense to him. He drained the cup and set it down, then stared at his master, who raised an eyebrow expectantly. Aquamarine knew what he was supposed to do and his master wasn’t going to repeat it. Unless of course Aquamarine really _needed_ the reminder—

“John Watson,” he pronounced carefully.

His master seemed pleased. “Very good. And what’s your name?”

“Aquamarine.” He said it slowly, dragging the ridiculous syllables out. His master smiled faintly.

“And how do you feel?”

At this Aquamarine hesitated. This was a subjective question, difficult to answer. He _felt_ a lot of things, and also curiously few, compared to his observations of other people. His master would want a useful answer, he decided, not a perfunctory one. But did he want to know how Aquamarine felt physically, emotionally? What sort of answer was he expecting? Did he want something overall positive, to validate his treatment of Aquamarine so far, or something negative, indicating what was still needed? Not that _much_ was still wrong with Aquamarine, at least if you discounted the whole ‘slave being bought and sold, with no control over his own life’ thing. Surely he didn’t want to know how Aquamarine felt about _that_ —

“Aquamarine?” his master prompted. He was not impatient, just bemused by the long contemplation this question had inspired. “How do you feel?”

“Clean,” Aquamarine finally responded, blurting it slightly. It seemed a stupid answer in hindsight.

His master nodded slowly. “Yes, I expect that would be novel for you,” he agreed seriously. “I like my slaves to be clean, I expect you to bathe and change your clothes regularly.” Aquamarine nodded in agreement. “Take your shirt off and come here,” his master instructed. “I want to see how your injuries have healed.”

Medical background, as Aquamarine had already deduced from his belongings. If he hadn’t, the way his master casually poured out a bowl of water and washed his hands in it first would give it away. Water was precious in the desert, though less so if you were rich, he supposed.

“Come closer, please, Aquamarine,” his master repeated, drying his hands on a towel. The ‘please’ was polite, but not pleading.

Aquamarine yanked his shirt off over his head and tossed it carelessly aside, waiting a moment to see if that violated an unspoken rule. His new master seemed neat, precise; but he said nothing, merely continued to wait for the slave to obey. Aquamarine crept closer, on all fours. His trousers were too big and threatened to slip away at any moment; not that this would embarrass him, not after everything _he’d_ done. He knelt up again, as if he was done moving, and waited to see his master’s reaction—he suspected very strongly that he was not yet close enough.

His master shifted his posture slightly, straightening out his legs, and held out his hand to Aquamarine. The command was obvious, Aquamarine just didn’t know if he wanted to follow it. Though he would have to eventually, or face worse. Gingerly, he crawled even closer, then took his master’s hand and straddled his lap.

His master smiled up at him. “Good boy,” he praised. He started with Aquamarine’s hands, pale and slender in his own blunt, tanned ones, turning them back and front, curling and uncurling his fingers. “Those look much better,” he judged. Aquamarine didn’t really remember anything being wrong with his hands, but frankly things had become a bit of a blur at the end.

Then he went for his head, turning it to either side to look at his ears. His master’s touch was firm, clinical, but also gentle, the necessary contact augmented by an extra caress or lingering graze. “Ears fine, jaw, nose, mouth better,” he murmured to himself. “Eyes… can’t even see it now.” His thumb brushed the skin above Aquamarine’s left eye. “Very nice. Is your vision alright?” He nodded. “Not blurred?” He shook his head. “How do your teeth feel? Are any of them loose?” Aquamarine ran his tongue along them experimentally, then shook his head again.

The report pleased his master, whose attention and hands drifted down Aquamarine’s neck to his shoulders and arms. It was almost like a light massage and he found himself relaxing incrementally, resting more and more of his weight on his master’s lap. “Much better. No pain? No soreness? Limited movement? Good. You’re very fair-skinned,” his master pointed out, which Aquamarine of course knew. “Quite prone to sunburn, I’d imagine.” Naturally; between dirt and sunburns he hadn’t seen his own arms looking so pale in years—they contrasted sharply with his master’s. Aquamarine wondered if he found that attractive, or sickly.

His master gave him a serious look. “I don’t want you to go outside during the day unless you’re fully covered, and wearing sunscreen.” Aquamarine gave him a curious look at this unfamiliar word. “Ask Molly about it before you go out. I don’t want you to burn.” He nodded obediently, mystified. Burning in the sun was difficult to avoid in this climate, especially for those with pale skin.

His master’s hands moved to trace over his chest. Aquamarine mostly watched the other man’s face, reading the signs of his next moves there so he could prepare himself. “You had deep scratches here, do you remember?” his master said, and he finally glanced down at the smooth skin his master’s fingers were lightly stroking. “Two or three months old. They’re gone now.” Aquamarine frowned, trying to remember. Bodily injuries were often deleted from his memory once they were no longer an immediate threat; the body was merely transport, a tool housing his mind. Its discomforts were distractions he couldn’t afford.

“Turn around, please,” his master told him, so he did, shifting his legs around until he was straddling his master again but now facing the rest of the tent. He felt warm fingertips trailing down his spine; the touch stayed with him after the hands had moved on and he twitched slightly, unsure if he should allow himself to arch into the contact or not.

“You remember the marks that were on your back, don’t you?” his master asked. “You’d been flogged, I guess. A long time ago. D—n shame, spoiling a beautiful creature that way.” Well, he didn’t know what the beautiful creature had done to _earn_ the flogging, Aquamarine reflected pragmatically. His new master might feel moved to do the same at some point. “Reach back,” his master told him, rest his own hands on Aquamarine’s hips. “They’re gone, too.”

With a frown Aquamarine did as he suggested, twisting his head in a futile attempt to see down his own back as well when his hands didn’t encounter the puckered ridges he expected. “I told you, Molly is very skillful,” his master remarked proudly. Skillful enough to remove _scars_? Western medicine was more advanced that the local version, then, Aquamarine decided, which was not exactly surprising.

There was a movement outside in the hall, then the bells jangled as someone burst in and started speaking. His master tensed beneath him in surprise and Aquamarine tensed in response, turning on the intruder with a snarl. Female, collared, impractical black lacy dress, no weapons, aggressive, froze when he growled at her.

His master slid one arm around his waist and two fingers under his collar, restraining but not choking, not if he stayed in place on his lap. “No, no,” he ordered evenly. “Stop. Calm down. Irene, sit down.” The woman sat gracefully, intrigued and not exactly intimidated. “Irene belongs to me,” his master told Aquamarine. So she was part of the pack, then. He relaxed slightly, though he still felt there was something untrustworthy about her—reckless, perhaps, the way she looked at him like he was a marvelous new toy, letting one pale leg protrude from her gown to draw his eye then gloating about it.

“Let him sniff your hand,” Master told her, and she complied, holding elegant fingers under Aquamarine’s nose with a coy smirk. He inhaled her scent, delicate and spicy, and growled again in acknowledgement.

She laughed gaily. “So this is the wildling! He cleans up rather well.”

“His name is Aquamarine,” Master reminded her. “And I’ve told you not to just barge in.”

“Sorry, Master,” she cooed, not very contritely. “Molly said he was awake and I wanted to see him. Am I interrupting you?” Her meaning was clearly salacious.

Master finally eased his hold on Aquamarine and slipped probing fingers through his hair. “No, I’m making sure his injuries have healed. He’d been badly mistreated.” Aquamarine heard the anger underlying his tone; both that and the actual words surprised him. Not that he thought he’d been _well_ -treated, he just hadn’t thought it unusual enough to be worthy of comment. And no master complained of a previous master’s treatment of a slave, unless it got in the way of their own desires—usually they took it as a sign of what _they_ might need to do in the future.

Irene made sympathetic noises, always with an air of amusement and flirtation behind them. She reached out to touch Aquamarine and he snapped at her, as a warning. She was not offended.

Nor did this anger Master. “Don’t provoke him, Irene,” he said, his voice suggesting she probably wouldn’t listen. “Let him get used to you first. Irene can be very bold, but she means well,” he added to Aquamarine, who had picked up on that easily enough himself. At least about Irene being _trouble_. “I expect members of my household to not hurt each other,” he went on sternly.

“Except by mutual consent,” Irene purred.

“If someone bothers you, come tell me about it,” he added, ignoring Irene’s comment. “Take off your trousers, please.”

Aquamarine stood quickly, the hand on his waistband practically holding the pants up. He hesitated to remove them, curious how his master would react to the refusal. There was no hope of retaining dignity as a slave; he had not been bought as a guard or laborer and his master clearly found him attractive, so the trousers would be coming off sooner or later. Flexing a little he hoped it was later; he wasn’t fully healed _everywhere_ yet. And he wouldn’t make it easy anyway, be _compliant_ ; he was a wildling, after all.

His master waited calmly, fully _expecting_ him to be compliant, wildling or not. “Do you want Irene to leave?” he offered reasonably. She made a disappointed noise, not hiding her eagerness to see him naked. Irene had clearly not been bought as a guard or laborer either.

Aquamarine was not embarrassed by Irene’s presence. That would imply he had some kind of civility, sensitivity to local mores. And clearly he did not. He wanted _that_ understood. So he stripped the trousers off.

Irene seemed pleased by what she saw. “Irene,” Master remarked, his own expression carefully neutral. He was sticking with the story about checking for injuries, trying to maintain his clinical detachment as Aquamarine returned to his previous position. Well, more or less; Aquamarine didn’t have much experience with doctors, but he _assumed_ they didn’t usually have patients sit on their laps.

“Stay up on your knees, please,” Master said, fingers grazing the back of his calves and thighs. “You had whip marks on your legs, fairly fresh,” he reminded him. “Those have healed nicely.” Aquamarine reached back and felt only the smooth unmarked skin. Quite amazing. Master’s satisfaction suggested that this was not always the expected result, advanced Western medicine or not.

“Sit back down. How do you feel here?” Aquamarine drew a sharp breath at the gentle touch. Partly it was just unexpected. “Still hurts? A lot? Just a little? Good, that’s much better.” There was a light sheen of sweat coating his skin now, and Master rubbed soothingly at the back of his neck and shoulder. “All done now, nothing else to worry about.” Which was hardly true, really. “You can get dressed now.” Aquamarine hurriedly rose and pulled on his two articles of clothing, unsure what he should do next.

Master was washing his hands again, thoroughly. “Sit down next to Irene and she’ll get you something to eat.”

“Yes, indeed,” Irene agreed, lasciviously. She waited a beat, still reclining against the pillows, and when Aquamarine didn’t respond the way she wanted—however that was—she rolled her eyes and went to get some bowls of food from a cabinet. Aquamarine stepped around his master’s feet and knelt down on the floor between him and Irene, not sure how wise it was to get close to his fellow slave, even when she was just preparing a bowl of food for him.

Master leaned back and watched them, his gaze studious. “It’s likely I’ll want you to try having sex with Irene,” he stated blandly, and Aquamarine coughed slightly on a grape he’d been given. Irene pretended this reaction was flattering. “Also Molly. And me, of course.” In case that wasn’t obvious. “Later, after you’ve healed, and gotten to know us a bit better.”

Since Master was right there, Aquamarine met Irene’s gaze suddenly, boldly, and raked his eyes down her body, immodestly presented in the black lace gown. Wildlings had a reputation for being wild in _everything_ , but she accepted the perusal confidently. Maybe that was only because Master _was_ right there, or maybe Irene really thought she was a match for him. Could be very interesting.

“ _But_ ,” Master added firmly, glancing between the two of them, “you’re not to touch either of them until I say so. Is that clear, Aquamarine?” He turned his eyes easily from Irene to Master and nodded. “Irene?”

“Yes, Master,” she agreed, with resignation.

“Mrs. Hudson is our housekeeper, she’ll see to your meals and laundry,” Master went on pragmatically. “You’re to do as she says. You can wander around the tent as you like but don’t go into someone’s room without permission.” He gave Irene a slightly pointed look.

“He’ll fry to a crisp if he goes outside,” she deflected. “He’s _so_ fair-skinned.” She tried to touch his face and he snapped at her, just a little.

Master ignored that. “I told him to cover up and wear sunscreen,” he agreed. “Everyone has to do that. And we do try to eat in a civilized manner,” he went on, and Aquamarine paused, lowering the bowl from his mouth where he’d been shoveling grapes, almonds, and olives directly in. “You’ll be fed regularly, there’s no need to stuff yourself.” Easy for _him_ to say.

“Oh, tell him not to hide food, Master,” Irene suggested, with superiority. “Because that attracts _vermin_.”

“Very true. He needs a fork, Irene.”

Aquamarine froze in the middle of sucking olive juice off his fingers. Irene seemed equally apprehensive about the order, which was an unexpected mood for her. Apparently she preferred her dangerous toys to be unarmed, at least.

“Irene,” Master prompted. He gave Aquamarine a level gaze. He was no fool, to give an obvious weapon to a crazed wildling. It was a test, a challenge perhaps, even a measure of trust. Aquamarine lifted his chin a notch in response. He was no ordinary wildling. He would not stab them with a fork in the night. Unless perhaps he felt they deserved it, but so far Master was making a good impression.

Irene handed him the fork. Aquamarine speared an olive with it and ate it, demonstrating that he knew the proper use of a fork as well. Master nodded, satisfied but not complacent. “Irene, pour him some more tea, please. What did you see at the market today?”

**

“You’re a clever boy, ain’t you?” the man said, his smirk slightly twisted. “Cleverer than all them fancy masters with their shiny boots and loose cash. Well go on then, if you’re so clever. Swallow it down.”

Aquamarine looked at the pill in his hand. He looked at the pill in the man’s hand. Had he made the right decision? Had he played the game correctly? There was only one way to find out. Kneeling on the hard-packed earth, he raised the pill up to the moonlight, as though he could see some difference in it.

“Go on then, clever boy—“

A shot rang out in the still air, echoing slightly, making Aquamarine jump backwards and drop the pill. The man lay on the ground in front of him now, not quite dead yet but rapidly bleeding out. “Aquamarine!” His head jerked up, toward the jumble of boulders nearby, and to his astonishment he saw his master scrambling from them, in his hand literally the smoking gun. Master dropped to his knees beside Aquamarine, setting aside the gun so he could pat the slave down, squeezing his arms and ribs, cupping his cheek. “Are you alright? Are you hurt? Did he hurt you?”

For once in his life Aquamarine could not formulate a coherent thought. His master had killed someone to save him. His master had tracked him and his kidnapper (Aquamarine used the term loosely) through the desert, and had killed him. This was something wholly new in Aquamarine’s experience and he didn’t know how to react to it, staring at his master dumbly and no doubt only further alarming him.

There was a shout and the man’s slave furiously rushed them, moonlight glittering off his knife. Without another thought Aquamarine threw himself at the man, between the attacker and his master, sinking his teeth into the flesh of the other slave’s throat with a ferocious snarl. His scream was cut short in the still night air, and then he too was bleeding out on the dry earth beside his master.

Aquamarine looked up from his kill, meeting his master’s gaze with blood dripping down his chin. At that moment, he probably _did_ look like a crazed wildling, who acted on nothing civilized men could understand. Though in this case Aquamarine thought his motivation was pretty obvious. Master stared back at him, shock morphing into acceptance and perhaps even a tiny touch of pride.

Approaching sirens distracted him. “Okay, okay, come here,” Master ordered. “Are you alright? Are you hurt?” Aquamarine spat a mouthful of blood, not his own, onto the ground nonchalantly. “Try to—clean up a little,” Master suggested, as the sirens and the vehicles that bore them came closer. Aquamarine swiped his shirt across his face, not really sure if that would reduce the grisliness of his appearance. He didn’t _want_ it reduced, wanted everyone to know what he would do for his master. So _they_ would know not to f—k with him.

Although, loud motorized vehicles with blinding lights swarming them was another situation entirely, one that Aquamarine didn’t know how to deal with. “It’s okay, it’s okay, come here,” Master said, trying to still his nervous scampering. “You’re alright, calm down.” He kept a firm hand on Aquamarine’s collar so he couldn’t get lost in the chaos.

Another Western stomped over authoritatively, while others rushed to examine the bodies. “John, what the h—l?!” he demanded aggressively, and Aquamarine snarled and tried to lunge at him.

Master knelt to restrain him better. “This is Detective Inspector Lestrade,” he told Aquamarine. “He’s a friend. Give him your hand to smell.”

Lestrade rolled his eyes. “Your new wildling, huh?” he surmised, unimpressed. Master gave him a pointed look and Lestrade sighed and held out his hand to Aquamarine, who sniffed it avidly. Master said he was a _friend_ , despite his intrusive behavior, so Aquamarine didn’t deliberately wipe blood on him like he wanted to. The slave deduced several other facts about him after a quick perusal, including the likely location of his office, the number of children he had, and his favorite sport. Probably not relevant right now.

“Well, what happened here, then?” Lestrade pressed. “As if I couldn’t guess.”

Master was not intimidated by him and calmly stroked Aquamarine’s hair, trying to get him to kneel quietly instead of crawling around. “He kidnapped my slave, I followed them, I shot him,” Master summarized smoothly.

“Was he gonna kill him?” Lestrade asked.

“He was a serial killer, Greg,” Master remarked dryly.

“None of his other victims were slaves.”

“Well perhaps he just kidnapped him to share some witty banter.”

Lestrade looked over the blood-covered slave and Aquamarine snarled at him ferally. Now was not the time to suggest there might have been anything more going on between himself and the serial killer, he could see that. It would just lead to too many questions.

“And the other one?” Lestrade went on.

“Came at us with a knife,” Master supplied. He rubbed the back of Aquamarine’s neck. “Good boy.” Aquamarine played into it, pushing his head against Master’s chest for more petting, as if that was the only thing he cared about.

“Protective rather quickly, isn’t he?” Lestrade observed.

“Well, that’s the thing with wildlings,” Master claimed, “if you treat them properly.”

Aquamarine saw the Jeep pulling up with Molly and Irene and became agitated all over again. There was too much commotion here; he needed them all safely home. “What happened?” demanded Irene, jumping from the driver’s seat.

“Are you alright?” Molly cried, seeing the blood covering Aquamarine.

“He’s alright,” Master assured her, transferring control of his collar to Molly. “See if you can clean him up a bit. You didn’t need him for questioning, did you?” he checked with Lestrade.

The man gave him a look. “Would there be any point?”

“Oh, he can say his name, and mine,” Master replied, a bit dismissively. Aquamarine was not offended; he understood this was merely a ploy, to make the Detective Inspector think he was a complete savage whose actions were instinctive, rather than anything he might be held responsible for.

“Great at parties, I’m sure,” Lestrade responded sarcastically. “Alright, go over it one more time.”

Master nodded at Molly, who tugged Aquamarine closer to the Jeep. “Hold still,” she told him, trying to wipe his face with a damp cloth. “I don’t _see_ any injury, but there’s so much blood…”

Irene was taking in a larger view of the scene. “I don’t think it’s _his_ blood,” she pointed out, and Aquamarine growled by way of confirmation. He would do the same to protect either of them.

Irene started to wander away from the Jeep and Aquamarine snarled his disapproval, reaching out to grab her arm. “He wants you to stay here,” Molly interpreted, which was pretty obvious.

“Well I suppose I’d better stay here then,” Irene conceded, in her usual tone of dark amusement. “Wouldn’t want him taking a bite out of me.” She leaned back against the Jeep.

Molly seemed pained by this suggestion, stroking his tense back soothingly. “You didn’t bite anyone, did you, Aquamarine?”

Irene gave her a look that suggested she was embarrassingly naïve and nodded towards the bodies on the ground. “They didn’t die from heart attacks,” she commented dryly.

Molly did not really like thinking about violence and she put her arm around Aquamarine, trying to hold him close. “I’m sure he only did it to protect Master,” she finally suggested. Aquamarine whined in agreement and sniffed at Molly, then turned to check on Irene.

“I’m still right here,” she pointed out sardonically. He pushed his head under her hand anyway to confirm her scent, conscious of not getting blood on her. “Honestly,” she huffed, but she ran her hand through his hair anyway.

Master was still talking to Lestrade. Aquamarine really wanted to rejoin them, to make sure his master was safe and knew he could count on Aquamarine to protect him—as _he_ had protected Aquamarine. But he knew he was supposed to stay with Molly and Irene, and look after them on Master’s behalf. This conflict led to a certain restlessness, and he snarled at a uniformed man who wandered a little too close to them.

“Aquamarine!” Molly chastised, putting her hand on his shoulder. He continued to glare at the man, who prudently decided he could take another route wherever he was going. It was rather obvious the man was having a secret affair with a slave owned by either his mother or an aunt, and Aquamarine didn’t want him getting any ideas about anyone from _his_ pack. For good measure he snapped at Irene, who was giving the man a flirtatious look as he backed away. Irene gave _everyone_ flirtatious looks; Aquamarine had seen plenty of bad things happen to slaves who drew too much attention to themselves.

Not that he had necessarily learned that lesson for himself yet.

Finally Master began walking towards the Jeep. Aquamarine scrambled out to meet him partway, then remembered he needed to watch the girls and returned to them, then couldn’t help himself and ran back and forth between them until Master snagged his collar and stilled him at his feet.

“Master, what happened?” Irene wanted to know.

“The man who kidnapped Aquamarine was the killer the police have been looking for,” Master replied, running his hand through Aquamarine’s hair to calm him.

“How horrible!” Molly exclaimed, kneeling to hug Aquamarine tightly. “Poor thing! You must have been so scared!” Molly was warm and soft, so Aquamarine decided to whimper in agreement and nuzzle against her.

“I’m sure,” Master replied dryly. “Come on, everyone into the car,” he ordered. “Irene can drive. Molly, hang on to his collar, I don’t want him to get scared and jump out,” he added, pointing them towards the backseat.

Aquamarine turned up his nose at _that_ idea. He knew perfectly well what a motorized vehicle was, he’d ridden in them before and even knew several ways to disable them. He tried to express this by hopping confidently into the backseat, and then wedging himself between the front two seats for a better view of the road. Master signaled to Irene to go and she navigated out of the cluster of people and vehicles.

“When we get back to the tent,” Master told them, raising his voice over the wind, “start packing. We’re going home tonight.”

Aquamarine gave him a quizzical look, but Master declined to explain further—the girls apparently knew what he meant. Their home was somewhere in the West, but Aquamarine didn’t know exactly where yet; surely it wasn’t someplace you could get to in one night, though, especially since it was already after midnight. Some people preferred to travel the desert in the night, under the stars; but it was closer to sunrise than sunset, and they’d all had a long day already. Maybe they were taking a late train or ship.

“Did Aquamarine attack someone, Master?” Irene asked innocently. She glanced pointedly back at Molly.

“Yes, he ripped a man’s throat out,” Master told them matter-of-factly. Molly made a distressed noise and Aquamarine momentarily draped himself across her lap, staring up at her with crystal blue eyes. He wouldn’t hurt _Molly_ , he tried to convey. Only bad people. “He was defending me,” Master went on. “So well done.” Aquamarine spun back around and barked in acknowledgement. “He can look after you two.”

“I can look after myself,” Irene countered, shifting gears and speeding up abruptly down the empty, sand-covered road.

“Don’t crash the car again, Irene,” Master warned her blandly, as Aquamarine and Molly clutched the seats and each other to avoid being bounced out onto the ground.

Lights appeared in the distance, coming towards them. “Slow down,” Master instructed Irene, curious about who they would meet out here at this time of night. Aquamarine popped back up above the seats, watching the oncoming vehicle warily, since his master was. “Pull over more.” It was a big black SUV, magically pristine despite the dusty setting, and Master seemed to recognize it because he rolled his eyes and relaxed—somewhat—when he saw it up close.

The two vehicles stopped side by side in the road and the back side window on the SUV rolled down, revealing yet another pale Westerner in a fine suit. “Dr. Watson,” he greeted, with a kind of secret amusement, as though he wanted you to think he knew much more than he was saying.

“Mr. Holmes,” Master returned. He was polite, but uninterested in the other man’s games. “I shouldn’t be surprised to see you out here.”

“Must keep an eye on the local excitement,” Mr. Holmes replied, feigning boredom. “Especially when it involves a citizen.” He said the last word like it was particularly significant.

He made Master uncomfortable, but he was powerful, a social superior, Aquamarine judged. Thus Master tried to remain cordial. “I already gave Lestrade my report,” he said briskly. “And we’re headed home, you can find us there if you need to.”

“Yes, I can,” Mr. Holmes confirmed. It sounded slightly sinister. His eyes flickered dismissively over Molly and Irene—funny, most people’s gazes tended to linger on Irene—and landed on Aquamarine with a curious scrutiny. “This is the wildling I’ve heard so much about, hmm?” he commented. Aquamarine was not sure how the man would have heard about him, or what ‘much’ there was to hear. “Looks more like a pretty little pleasure slave to me.”

The remark was meant to provoke, but Aquamarine stayed in place and just bared his teeth, still bloody, and gave a low growl. The pale Westerner in his fancy suit might be powerful, but he didn’t like to get his hands dirty; Aquamarine spotted his almost imperceptible grimace. But, he didn’t look away.

Master leaned his hand lightly against Aquamarine’s chest, more as a reminder than a real restraint. “He’s useful enough,” he told the other man with deceptive mildness. Aquamarine was not insulted by the seemingly faint praise; he understood that Master just wanted to stop talking to this man and leave. Pride kept him from trying to look less interesting, though, and he could tell the man’s quick eyes were making a thorough assessment of him, even as Aquamarine did the same to _him_.

After a moment his posture changed subtly and he said dismissively, “Well, I’ve a mess to clean up. Dr. Watson.”

“Mr. Holmes.” The window on the SUV was rolled up almost before Master finished speaking and the vehicle roared away.

Irene quickly resumed their drive back to the tent, but she seemed troubled. “Why is Mycroft Holmes interested in Aquamarine?” she asked, clearly finding this ominous.

“I don’t know,” Master admitted, glancing back at Aquamarine thoughtfully. He stared back, unself-conscious but unhelpful. Aquamarine knew a lot about this Mycroft Holmes now, just by observing him—eating habits (plentiful, prone to temptation), general occupation (sitting, reading, writing), background (privileged, non-military, cosmopolitan)—but he didn’t know why he would be interested in a wildling slave with no memory of his origins and no tangible talents. Possibly, he just found him attractive.

They pulled up to the tent, the guards at the entrance jumping stiffly to attention. Aquamarine bounded out of the Jeep, eager to move freely once again—the Jeep was _not_ very comfortable as it bounced over the rutted roads—but Master suddenly grabbed his shoulder, then his collar. “Packing,” he reminded Molly and Irene, pulling Aquamarine along into the tent. “Tell Mrs. Hudson. And don’t disturb me!”

Aquamarine did _not_ like being towed through the tent by his collar, it choked if he didn’t keep up with Master. And it made him feel like he’d done something bad. But he hadn’t! He’d done something good and saved Master’s life. And, he’d helped catch a serial killer, when no one else realized who it was. But now he was being dragged along like an undisciplined child, and he growled to show his displeasure.

Master did not pay much attention to that. They entered Master’s room, the bells at the entrance clanging as Aquamarine stumbled into them, and Master pulled Aquamarine’s collar until he was kneeling. Master could just _tell_ him to kneel, Aquamarine understood perfectly well. And usually he obeyed.

Master was agitated about something, though. Normally he was very calm and confident, but now he paced slightly around the room, obviously deliberating over something. Petulantly Aquamarine found it boring and wanted to go back to his own room. After a moment Master sighed and sat down in a low chair, cheek resting on his fist as he regarded Aquamarine tiredly. “Come take my books off,” he finally said.

Aquamarine did not want to obey; he was still mad. Master raised an eyebrow, repeating the command silently.

Ungraciously, Aquamarine crawled across the tent—in no hurry—and tugged Master’s boots off. He wondered if he’d be assigned to polish them, as the others were polished. Rich Westerners liked to have shiny boots, pointless as that was in this environment. Was Master too pragmatic to insist on that, or would he tip over onto the side of military cleanliness? More data needed.

“Aquamarine.” He looked up from contemplating the boots. “Come here.” He scooted closer to Master, ending up between his knees with his arms resting awkwardly on Master’s thighs. Awkward, because he was still feeling resentful, and didn’t want to be this close to him.

Master had other ideas, though. He cupped Aquamarine’s cheek with one hand, then mimicked the action on the other side, and then suddenly his hands were a vise keeping Aquamarine in place rather than caressing him. “I know you went with that man on your own,” Master said in a low voice, meeting Aquamarine’s gaze. “You weren’t kidnapped. You suspected he was the killer and you went with him to find out how he did it. Because you think you’re so very clever, much cleverer than anyone else.”

Aquamarine stared back at him, unsure how to react. He tried and failed to look innocent, or humble. He wasn’t either of those things, but _was_ , in fact, much cleverer than anyone else. And he had the scars to prove it, or he used to until they were healed by Molly. Masters didn’t like having a clever slave, a slave who was cleverer than they were. His breath came quicker as he tensed, unable to deduce what Master would do next.

“Don’t ever leave without my permission again,” Master ordered him. “Do you understand that you went off into the desert with a murderer, and didn’t tell anyone you were going? Hmm?” He gave Aquamarine a little shake. “If I hadn’t been able to track you, you could have been killed. And that’s not very clever at all.”

Master didn’t sound angry exactly, he sounded… concerned. Aquamarine remembered how stunned he’d been to realize Master would kill to protect him. Stunned, and grateful, and like everything had suddenly changed. Impulsively he launched forward, bringing Master’s lips down to his in a raw, messy kiss that tried to express everything he couldn’t seem to say in words.

“Don’t try to distract me,” Master panted a moment later, sounding very distracted. He rested his forehead against Aquamarine’s, still cupping his jaw. “Do not leave without my permission again,” he managed to repeat. “Do you understand? If something’s wrong come and tell me about it.”

Aquamarine growled in frustration. ‘Come and tell me’ like it was so easy to articulate the ideas, the connections, racing through his brain—and even if he _could_ , think of the precious time being lost as he tried to help lesser minds reach the same conclusions he had ages ago.

Master’s fingers tangled through his hair soothingly. “Hey,” he murmured. “Do you understand?”

Of course Aquamarine understood _literally_ , but he knew Master was looking more for an acknowledgement and acceptance of his order. Finally he nodded tightly.

“Good boy. You were very impressive tonight,” Master finally praised. Aquamarine bared his teeth to underline the point that he was not only clever, but also fierce. Master grimaced slightly. “Yeah, you do still taste like blood,” he admitted, which was apparently a problem. “Go brush your teeth and come back here.” He glanced significantly at the pile of pillows and blankets that served as a bed, and Aquamarine tried to kiss him again, hungrily. Master gave in for a moment, then pulled back abruptly. “Brush your teeth,” he repeated, letting Aquamarine go. He hurried off to obey in record time.

**

Aquamarine awoke suddenly, because his mind had had enough sleep and decided it was time to do something else.

Location: Master’s room in tent, pillows, blankets, dimly lit but not dark, cool, _moist_ , personally warm, alone.

Self: naked, slightly sore, minor bruising, small scratches, mind clear, no regrets.

Passage of time: a few hours, should be shortly after sunrise. Little sleep had been required. More would be appreciated, the body requisitioned, but was denied; mind needed stimulation more than body needed rest. Why was the air _moist_?

Memories: Master, killing, pleasure, Mycroft Holmes, home. Were they to start on their journey home now? Was a thunderstorm approaching? Why was the tent so silent? Where was Master?

Aquamarine dressed quickly—just trousers and a blood-stained shirt—and left Master’s room. The tent was eerily quiet. None of Master’s belongings were packed or missing. Same in Molly’s and Irene’s rooms, except for a few toiletries. Aquamarine let out a questioning yip into the stillness. There was no response.

He headed towards the entrance of the tent, knowing he wasn’t supposed to go outside during the day without proper covering and Molly’s foul-tasting sunscreen. But the tent’s foyer was even cooler and moister, full of fresh, wet, green scents he couldn’t identify. Aquamarine slipped his hand through the entrance flap and peeked out, then shoved it aside fully and stepped out all the way, astonishment making his jaw drop.

He had expected the desert vista he’d gone to sleep with, cracked dry earth on the edge of the mud-brick town, the endless brown stretching away on either side with the mountains looming dimly in the background. Instead he saw—riotous green and blazing white. Grass, lush and healthy, prickled his bare feet, carpeting the entire area around the tent; it was fenced in by tall, leafy hedges and dotted by massive trees. And ahead of him, very close, was a house, all white, made of horizontal boards and glass windows in no style he was familiar with. The sky overhead was hazy, indeed just after dawn but overcast. It might even rain.

It didn’t make any sense. No matter how Aquamarine’s mind raced, he came up blank. He spun around, as if the desert might merely be _behind_ him, and saw that the tent he’d just walked through and stepped out of was actually quite small, a domed structure just large enough for two people. He had to drop to his knees and crawl back in—and found himself on all fours on the floor of the spacious foyer, with more rooms beyond. Aquamarine scrambled back out. The tent was small again. He circumnavigated it and poked at it to be sure.

At this point there was only one sensible thing for Aquamarine to do. He started screaming.

John was at the kitchen table having his morning coffee across from his mother when he heard the noise. He turned in his chair to look out the back window, then jumped to his feet. “S—t,” he swore, hurrying outside. His mother was always worrying about what the neighbors would think; a man screaming in the backyard just after dawn was probably a bit not good. He could hardly blame him, though. “Aquamarine!” he called as he crossed the back deck.

Master was coming. Master would help him. Aquamarine stopped screaming and dropped to the ground, wrapping his arms around his legs and burying his face against his knees, trying to blot out this new world that made so little sense. Maybe it was just a hallucination. Maybe he was sick, injured, finally losing his mind.

In hindsight leaving Aquamarine alone in the tent had probably not been a good idea, John decided. “Aquamarine? Aquamarine!” He knelt in the grass by the slave, who was rocking back and forth erratically, and slipped his jacket around his thin shoulders for warmth. “It’s okay, you’re okay, come here.” He pulled the slave into his arms and Aquamarine clung to him, whimpering. John felt hot tears soaking through his shirt and guilt stabbed at him. “Aquamarine, you’re safe,” he tried to assure him. “Yes, we’re someplace different but you’re safe—“

A high-pitched whine, coupled with a growl of frustration. Aquamarine was not scared for his safety. He was terribly frustrated, even angry, about his inability to understand. “ _How?_ ” he choked out.

John threaded his fingers through his dark curls and kissed his temple. “Well, it’s magic,” he answered. “I know you don’t like that,” he added quickly, as Aquamarine snarled against his shoulder. “But that’s how we got here. Like how Molly healed your injuries.”

Magic! Magic wasn’t _real_. There was _science_ , definitely a lot of science that Aquamarine was ignorant of—chemicals and technology, like Master’s glowing folding thing with buttons that he wasn’t to touch. Master never said _that_ was magic, even if he couldn’t explain it to Aquamarine’s satisfaction. So why would he say _this_ was magic? Magic was for children and old people and slaves in denial of reality.

“John!” his mother called from the back door. She wanted him to come in before the neighbors—who were probably still sound asleep—saw him holding the man who was having a nervous breakdown in the yard.

“Come on, let’s go in before it rains,” he murmured to Aquamarine, trying to get him to stand. “Come inside, maybe you can figure out a better explanation. There’s a good boy.”

Aquamarine sniffled and staggered to his feet with Master. Maybe Master just didn’t _know_ how it worked, so it seemed like magic to him, and he found that explanation sufficient. But his words suggested a more logical mechanism might be behind it, and if anyone could untangle it and enlighten the rest of them, it would be Aquamarine. He accepted the challenge.

Might be a long-term project, though.

“Goodness,” Mrs. Watson commented as they crossed the deck. There was dismay in her tone, but then again there usually was. She moved aside to let John and Aquamarine enter the kitchen.

“Wipe your feet,” Master instructed, indicating the rough mat just inside the doorway, and Aquamarine did so, the strange texture interesting but not enough to hold his attention in a room filled with so many new and foreign _things_. Pictures and dishes and counters and cabinets and machines and food and books and strangers (one, anyway) and lights and smells and—Something hissed near him, threateningly, and Aquamarine howled and dove under the table, scattering the empty chairs and pulling Master’s jacket over his head.

John sighed. “That’s Aquamarine,” he told his mother, who was looking very uncertain about the whole thing.

“Is it really _safe_ to have a wildling about, John?” she asked him, not for the first time.

“He’ll be fine,” John told her, with more confidence than he felt.

Footsteps echoed in the hall, then Molly and Irene burst in. “We thought we heard Aquamarine,” Molly explained in confusion, looking around.

Irene was drawn by the chaotic chairs and ducked down to look beneath the table. “Is he under there?” she asked in a teasing tone. “What are you doing under there, Aquamarine?” The quivering ball did not acknowledge her.

“I think the coffee maker scared him,” John sighed, freshening his cup.

Predictably Irene found this amusing. “The coffee maker? After what you did last night, the _coffee maker_ scares you?” She started to crawl under the table.

“What did he do last night?” Mrs. Watson asked fearfully.

“Nothing,” John dismissed. “Irene, don’t bother him. Mrs. Hudson, is breakfast ready yet?”

“Oh yes, dear, coming right up,” the woman assured him, navigating his mother’s kitchen expertly.

Molly was kneeling on the floor now, too, peering under the table in concern. Irene must have poked at Aquamarine; John heard him snarl and her squeal, and she sat down hard on the floor in surprise. “Irene, I told you,” he reminded her. He resumed his seat at the table with his coffee. “Just let him get used to things. Come on, Mum, sit down and have some breakfast.” Clearly she wasn’t sure if the table was safe, what with the wildling hiding under it. “He’s over here by me,” John added, feeling Aquamarine against his legs. “He won’t bother you.”

Finally she took a seat, opposite him, clutching her coffee cup nervously. John knew she didn’t understand certain things about him, hadn’t understood them in his father either. John couldn’t blame her, he didn’t understand them himself, not really—that’s why he had to tell Aquamarine it was magic. Functionally it _was_ , he supposed. Anyway, Aquamarine didn’t have anything to do with _that_ ; she just bought into the stereotype that wildlings were untrustworthy and violent, and owned only by people with dangerous, kinky tastes. Not really something John was comfortable with his mother thinking about, frankly.

Mrs. Hudson brought a platter of French toast to the table—his mother never had to lift a finger when he visited, and got her whole house cleaned as well, you’d think she’d enjoy that. Molly and Irene sat down at the table, giving Mrs. Watson a respectful berth, and reached out to load their plates up.

“What are we going to do today, Master?” Irene asked eagerly.

“I thought maybe you and Molly could do some shopping,” he responded, which was exactly what she wanted to hear. The girls started to plan which stores they would visit—the most expensive ones in his mother’s mid-sized city—and John caught her eyes flickering away from him. People had slaves—not everyone, they were a bit of expense and trouble, but they weren’t rare. People didn’t usually let them go on shopping sprees, though, especially slaves like Irene, because that _did_ get expensive. But John had money. It would be ridiculous if he had magic to heal injuries and travel thousands of miles in moments, but not magic to buy things. And clearly this magic thing operated on sensible rules like that. He noticed his mother didn’t refuse the money he put in her account each month.

“I want you to get some clothes for Aquamarine, too,” he added.

“Can he come with us?” Molly asked hopefully.

“I don’t think he’s quite ready for that yet,” John replied dryly.

Under the table Aquamarine finally poked his head out from Master’s jacket. From this viewpoint things didn’t look so different. He didn’t know what the floor was made of, but then again he was hardly an expert on flooring. Table and chairs matched, different style than he was used to, obviously the sort of thing Westerners preferred, being up high. He slipped his arms into the jacket and pulled it tight around him; the air was chilly despite the risen sun. His arms stuck out of the sleeves but the rest of it was too big for him.

He recognized Molly and Irene’s legs under the table. The other woman was Master’s mother, and he wasn’t supposed to bother her, because she was scared of him. He’d been _listening_ , after all. A movement caught his eye and he saw Master’s hand offering him an orange slice under the table. Aquamarine took it with his teeth, deliberately letting his lips brush Master’s fingers. It was different from the oranges he was used to—bigger, sweeter, but somehow also less flavorful.

Master’s mother was nervous around them. Aquamarine didn’t think it was _just_ him. Were mothers supposed to be nervous around their children? He’d never understood that sort of thing.

He pushed his forehead against Master’s knee, hoping for more food—traitorous body, always _needing_ something—and Master angled his head to look down on him. “Sit up here if you want to eat,” Master encouraged, patting the empty chair next to him. When Aquamarine didn’t move, just stared at him, he shrugged and went back to his own breakfast.

Slowly, Aquamarine crawled out from under the table. Master glanced at him but didn’t make a fuss—Aquamarine hated a fuss, well, sometimes anyway. It was much brighter out here, the overhead light practically blinding Aquamarine as he tried to determine if it was caused by candles, or perhaps oil—

Master abruptly put a hand over his eyes and turned his head away. “Don’t stare at the lights,” he ordered. “You’ll hurt your eyes. I’ll show you how they work later.” He removed his hand cautiously and black spots danced in front of Aquamarine’s eyes. “When you’re at the bookstore,” Master added to Irene and Molly, “get him some books. Children’s non-fiction with lots of pictures,” he suggested. Aquamarine was already learning how to read the language Master’s books were written in; Molly was _helping_ him, but not _teaching_ him, he was teaching himself because he was too impatient to be somebody else’s student.

There was a bowl of water on the floor in the corner, and next to it a bowl of dry brown chunks. Convenient, Aquamarine thought, crawling over to investigate. Master snagged his collar. “No, your food is on the table,” he reminded Aquamarine. “Leave that alone.”

“Was he going to eat the _dog food_?” Irene mocked. Aquamarine knelt up and peered over the edge of the table at her, eyes narrow. “Oh _there_ you are,” she continued, teasingly. “What a big baby you are, hiding under the table.”

Aquamarine growled at her, making Mrs. Watson’s eyes go wide. “Stop,” Master ordered evenly, not looking at either of them. Aquamarine sneered silently at her, and Irene made a face back. Molly ruined it by giggling, which drew Master’s attention from his conversation with his mother. “Are you going to get up in the chair or not?” he asked Aquamarine pointedly.

Aquamarine contemplated the object. He knew what it meant to sit on a chair-like object—benches, stairs, car seats. He just felt awkward doing so. Molly and Irene were obviously allowed, even expected, to sit on the furniture. He pulled the chair away from the table and, with only a small loss of grace, climbed up to crouch in it.

“He must have wonderful knees,” Irene said enviously as he bounced lightly on the balls of his bare feet. She must have really meant it, because she forgot to put a salacious spin on the comment.

Master was looking at him with his chin resting in his hand, partially covering his mouth. That usually meant he found something amusing but knew he shouldn’t and was trying to hide it. He raised his eyebrows expectantly at Aquamarine. Well, nobody _else_ was crouching, so clearly this wasn’t the desired endpoint. Carefully he lowered his legs to the floor, sitting flat on his rear end. Then he winced and Irene burst out laughing, knowing the source of his discomfort, but Master shot her a look and she kept her mouth shut.

“Good boy,” Master praised him. Then he turned back to his mother. “Did the Doyles ever get their house sold?”

They continued talking as Aquamarine picked up the knife and fork in front of him. Knives he was not allowed to touch normally and he gripped it in an unfamiliar way that made Mrs. Watson lose the thread of conversation as her eyes darted over to him. He watched Master closely then smoothly rearranged the implements to match his hold, finally cutting into the soft bread.

“Does he, um, speak?” Mrs. Watson asked, clearly not sure if this was the sort of thing one discussed.

“He can,” Master assured her. “Tell her your name.”

Aquamarine took a sip of coffee first. “Aquamarine,” he pronounced slowly.

“Oh my,” she responded, uncertain what else to say.

“I like his voice,” Irene declared. “It’s deeper than you’d expect, don’t you think?” Molly nodded, blushing a little.

Aquamarine was not opposed to this positive assessment. “Molly. Butter,” he requested, indicating the bowl in the middle of the table. John rolled his eyes, fearing Molly might swoon, and passed him the butter himself. Aquamarine gave him a little smirk that said he didn’t think John was totally immune to him either.

“Honestly,” John muttered.

“Um, what’s that on his shirt?” his mother asked suddenly, and John tried to remain casual.

“Oh, mud probably,” he claimed. “He can be rather messy. I’ll get him cleaned up after breakfast.” Aquamarine made a soft whimpering noise, trying to look innocent.

“He does sort of remind me of Taffy, I suppose,” Mrs. Watson commented, in a slightly warmer tone, and John coughed a little.

“Yes, I suppose there are certain similarities,” between Aquamarine and his mother’s little black Scottie. John cleared his throat again. “Er, I’ll be teaching him to blend in a little more,” he added. “Walking, using the furniture, that sort of thing. Crawling through the streets of London not really being encouraged.”

After breakfast the girls got dressed to go out, and Master tried to introduce Aquamarine to what he called ‘the conveniences of modern life.’ _Showers_ were amazing—your own private waterfall spouting from the wall, except deliciously warm. Only apparently you weren’t supposed to bother someone who was taking one; he was sure Irene had just been too polite to mention that. _Shampoo_ tasted bad and stung his eyes, though.

He did _not_ like _pants_. They were too tight around important bits, and Irene laughed at him when she saw him and said he had them on backwards; Master sent her away before she could “help” fix them. Master tried to tell him they were the civilized thing to wear, but once he’d whimpered and writhed enough Master let him take them off. Torture device, really. _Pajama bottoms_ were comfortable, if not very sturdy; and the _t-shirt_ was soft, but it had short sleeves, so it wouldn’t protect his skin from the sun. “The sun isn’t as strong here,” Master assured him, “so you can go outside for a few minutes without worrying about it. But any longer and you need coverings and sunscreen.”

He did not like the _telephone_ or the _television_ or the _cuckoo clock_. He really did not like the cuckoo clock. The _refrigerator_ was amazing; the _microwave_ he didn’t trust. Master sighed and told him not to touch anything in the kitchen, it was just safer that way. Oh, and he didn’t like the _smoke alarm_ , and neither did Master’s mother. He could see endless possibilities for the _electric lights_ ; and the _electric blanket_ , though not what he had assumed it would be, was quite cozy, especially because it seemed to be cold here all the time, even at the sun’s height during what Master claimed was summer.

Taffy, the little black dog of the house, didn’t like him at first, but that made sense to Aquamarine; he was invading Taffy’s territory, and he was quite a bit larger. But Aquamarine made the appropriate submissive noises and gestures to him and he and Taffy reached an understanding. Then together they chased off an intruder who was trying to put _things_ in the house through a slot in the door, bad things undoubtedly, and Taffy let him curl up in his special corner to sulk after they were chastised by their unappreciative masters. They really had _no_ sense of how vigilant a proper guard had to be, did they? Aquamarine knew Taffy understood, though.

“Come on, let’s go outside for a bit,” John said, trying very hard not to grin at Aquamarine pouting in the corner with the dog.

“The neighbors might be out—“ his mother worried. She was certain she would never live down the attack on the mailman—normally Taffy just barked at him from inside, but this time _someone_ was able to open the door and let Taffy out.

“We’ll try to act normal,” John assured her dryly. “Come on,” he repeated to Aquamarine. “Walk on your feet. I know you can.” Aquamarine gave him a scornful look that said _he_ knew he could too, and then straightened so he was looking down on his master from his greater height. John tried not to interpret this as snideness; he couldn’t help how tall he was.

The yard wasn’t very big—his mother hadn’t wanted too much to take care of—but there were some nice trees, and the hedges prevented the neighbors from seeing _too_ much. “This is an oak tree,” John explained to Aquamarine, who seemed very interested in its bark. He turned away momentarily as a neighbor started their mower, wondering if it would scare Aquamarine, and when he looked back the slave was shimmying up the tree.

John opened his mouth to chide him, then thought—well, _why_? Sure, mostly it was children who climbed trees, but he wasn’t bothering anyone. “Are you scared of that noise?” he asked instead, indicating the mower next door.

Aquamarine raised his eyebrows at him as if to say, _should_ I be scared?

“Just stay away from it,” John advised.

Aquamarine had _obviously_ been planning to do that anyway, his look said, and he started climbing higher.

John tried not to worry. Aquamarine seemed very adept at climbing, and knew to test the branches before putting his weight on them. Being up that high was probably quite novel to him.

“John?” He tried not to sigh as his mother stepped out the back door to join him. There were logistical reasons why it was easier to transport himself here rather than directly to London; but sometimes he thought the extra hassle might be worth it. His mother glanced around as she approached, giving the small tent a long look. “Where’s, um--?”

“Aquamarine,” John supplied. It wasn’t that odd of a name for a slave, John had just let his previous two keep the names they were used to. There was an answering yip from above them and John looked up to see how high he’d gotten. “He’s climbing the tree,” he added—unnecessary as a statement of fact, but it let his mother know he approved of the activity.

“Oh, he might fall—“

“I don’t think he’ll fall,” John countered mildly. Without his father’s more adventurous influence she might have smothered him and Harry as children, with all her worrying. The leaves rustled and a green acorn bounced off his head, and then Aquamarine crouched on the lowest branch, blinking at them. “See, he’s fine.” Aquamarine, for his part, seemed slightly suspicious that he’d been allowed to do such a thing. “You’re a good climber, aren’t you?” John praised. “Are you ready for some lunch now?”

Still in the tree, Aquamarine shook his head. He didn’t eat much, which John found interesting; with food plentiful most slaves tended to overindulge at first, until they realized they would always be fed adequately. Aquamarine was just the opposite, pushing food away after just a few bites. He didn’t hide or steal it to eat later, either, as far as John could tell. He just didn’t like eating and preferred to spend as little time on it as possible. John wondered if he’d always been that way, or if it was the result of mistreatment in his past.

“Well come down anyway,” John told him. “You don’t have to eat much.”

“What’s wrong?” his mother asked intrusively when Aquamarine didn’t move. “Why isn’t he listening to you?” Obviously her mind was going to _other_ ways in which the slave might not listen to him.

John stifled a sigh. “Mum, could you go check on lunch, please?” he asked politely. She was reluctant to leave but finally did, casting nervous glances back over her shoulder. Once she was out of earshot he turned back to Aquamarine with an expectant look. “What’s wrong?” he asked. His neck was starting to get stiff from staring upwards. “Aquamarine, get down now. _Now_ ,” he added firmly, and the slave finally dropped from the tree to kneel at his feet. John ran his fingers through his hair. “What’s the matter? It was alright for you to climb the tree, I would’ve called you down earlier if it wasn’t. Come on, then.” He nudged Aquamarine slightly with his knee.

“Big,” Aquamarine finally said. He seemed quite troubled by this, but John had to admit he didn’t get it.

“Um… what’s big, then?” He slid his hand down to the back of the slave’s neck, rubbing him soothingly.

Aquamarine suddenly spread his arms, as if trying to encompass everything. Well, maybe he was. “You could probably see a long way from the top of that tree,” John realized. “Other houses, cars on the road, maybe the buildings downtown and the fields outside of town?”

Aquamarine nodded and leaned his head against John’s thigh, shoulders slumped in defeat. “I know, it’s a big world,” John confirmed in a comforting tone. “Most of it’s _not_ magic, though, so you should be able to understand it well enough. Just have a little patience.”

Aquamarine tipped his head back to look up at him then, blue eyes filled with confusion and perhaps even a little fear. That would go away soon; he couldn’t allow himself to show that for long, but John took it as a certain amount of trust in him, that he was witness to it at all.

He knelt down on the grass himself and pulled the slave close. “Hey, you’re going to be alright,” he assured him, rubbing his thin back. “I know there’s a lot to understand, but you’ll figure it out. You’re very clever, after all.” He said this lightly and Aquamarine rested his head on his shoulder, but only for a moment; then he tensed and snarled. “What?” John leaned back and saw him looking over his shoulder—when he twisted himself around he saw his mother’s neighbor watching them over a low point in the hedge.

“Hush,” he murmured to Aquamarine, giving him a final squeeze. Then he climbed to his feet. “Hello, Mrs. Rogers,” he told the woman politely, yanking on Aquamarine’s shoulder to make him stand. He wandered over to the hedge. “How are you today? Just visiting Mum for a couple days.”

The woman relaxed slightly as she remembered who he was. “Oh, right, you’re the doctor, aren’t you?” she remarked. Her eyes drifted over to Aquamarine and John took a quick look to make sure he wasn’t doing anything strange. She could see his collar plainly enough, and slaves weren’t normally introduced unless some sort of interaction was necessary.

“Yes, that’s right. Your garden is looking lovely,” he redirected. “Are your tomatoes in yet?”

He walked away from the conversation a few minutes later with a bag of freshly-picked tomatoes, still warm from the sun. Well, actually Aquamarine was carrying them, because that’s what slaves _did_. He sniffed at them avidly as they walked into the house. “Tomatoes from Mrs. Rogers,” John announced to his mother. “Yes, you can eat that, but let Mrs. Hudson wash it off first,” he added to Aquamarine. “And wipe your feet.”

Aquamarine was content with his tomato and a bite—literally just one—from John’s roast beef sandwich. And actually he didn’t want the bite of sandwich, but John made him take it because he needed a _little_ more nutrition than a single vegetable could provide. As soon as they got back to London—and John thought he wouldn’t flip out—he was going to give him a complete physical, and possibly start him on some vitamins.

The girls came home shortly after lunch and Aquamarine was drafted to help carry the impressive number of bags in from the cab. John knew his mother didn’t like them cluttering up her front parlor. “We’ll take them out to the tent this evening,” he assured her, holding Taffy so the curious little dog couldn’t get into any of the sacks. “Are you sure you got everything?” he deadpanned to Irene. He could afford what she wanted and didn’t like to tease her too much—her former master had delighted in keeping her without material possessions as it suited him—but he couldn’t _not_ say anything, not when you could hardly move in the room once she was done.

She put her hands on her hips and surveyed the purchases thoughtfully. “Well, there were a few more stores I wanted to get to, but someone was getting _tired_ ,” she complained, glaring at Molly, who’d flopped down on the couch.

“My feet are killing me,” Molly said in response. “You always take forever to decide on things!”

Then John caught sight of Aquamarine, who was digging through a bag and chucking items of no interest over his shoulder, much as Taffy would have done but at least without the drool and teeth marks. “Aquamarine—“ The slave was twisting a blue lace bra around, trying to figure out what it was for.

“Get out of that!” Irene snapped at him, snatching the bra away. “Put those things back!” Aquamarine snarled at her.

“Stop it,” John told both of them with a sigh. He hoped he wasn’t always going to be moderating spats between them. “Aquamarine, it’s not yours, is it, so put it back. Irene, why don’t you and Molly go and have a lie-down, you’ve been up since before dawn.”

Molly looked ready to comply, but Irene was watching Aquamarine rebag the clothing he’d disturbed—his expression was sullen, and she had a wicked gleam in her eye. That could only mean trouble. “Irene—“ John prompted.

“I got some clothes for Aquamarine, Master,” she told him innocently. “Like you said.” She held out her hand to the kneeling slave, waggling her fingers and smiling like a witch offering candy to children. “Come on, Aquamarine, let’s go try them on.”

The look he gave her was highly suspicious, and he glanced at John for guidance. With a sigh John just shrugged. “Up to you. You know what she’s like.”

“Yes, you _know_ what I’m like, don’t you, sweetie,” Irene cooed to him flirtatiously. It was clearly over the top, and Molly was rolling her eyes in the background; but Aquamarine looked intrigued.

“Your choice,” John warned him, and Aquamarine crawled towards Irene with acceptance.

“Good boy!” she praised, scratching his head. “Now, which bags do I want?”

John left them and took Taffy outside, letting the little dog run around the yard while he checked his email on his laptop. London still existed, that was good to know. Magical travel could be a bit disorienting sometimes; he had a vague fear of accidentally time-traveling, and then not being able to get back home. He pretended that was what had happened to his father.

John thought he heard raised voices coming from the upstairs, and growling; he rolled his eyes. He’d warned them. Some people thought John too lenient with his slaves, but he knew Molly and Irene would obey without question when he gave them a true order. Maybe someday Aquamarine would, too; it was too soon to tell. But he didn’t like to micromanage every moment of their lives.

His mother stepped out onto the deck. “John, they seem to be a bit—excited,” she pointed out nervously.

With the door open the voices were louder, but not what he considered excessive. “Irene’s bought some real clothes for Aquamarine,” he told her conversationally. “I expect he doesn’t like them. Would you like some tea? It’s lovely out here.”

“Um, no, that’s alright, thank you,” she demurred, looking back at the house with concern.

Suddenly the house was quieter, except for thumps down the stairs. “Ah, they’ve finished now,” he pointed out. “We’ll see how he looks.” She should be glad if he was wearing more ‘normal’ clothes, John would’ve thought.

The back door opened again and Aquamarine crawled out onto the deck. Mrs. Watson stepped away from him as he approached John’s chair and knelt up. He was wearing dark jeans—rather tight—a button-down shirt that wouldn’t stay tucked in, and a green argyle sweater vest. Since John had only ever seen him in loose, casual clothes, the change was sexier than he would have imagined. “Don’t you look sharp,” he complimented with a grin. He avoided groping Aquamarine in deference to his mother’s presence, even though he quite wanted to.

Aquamarine seemed to know it and dropped back down on all fours, crawling around the deck to show off his rear end in the jeans. That also enabled John to notice his still-bare feet. “Didn’t she get you any shoes?” John asked, as Aquamarine came back to him.

“He won’t wear them!” Irene said crossly, appearing in the doorway with a pair of Doc Martens.

“Or his socks!” Molly added, over Irene’s shoulder. They both stepped out onto the deck so John’s mother could go back inside, where the normal people were—she liked chatting with Mrs. Hudson, at least.

Aquamarine growled at Irene and John distracted him by running his fingers through his hair. “Those jeans are marvelous, Irene,” he complimented her, and she smirked knowingly. “How did you get him into them?”

“It was a lot of work,” she huffed, giving Aquamarine a sour look, and he sneered back at her.

“You’re not too hot with that jumper?” John checked with him, then chuckled at Aquamarine’s look of disbelief. Clearly he wasn’t sure it was _possible_ to be too hot here.

Sneaking a look back to make sure his mother was otherwise occupied, John let his hand drift down Aquamarine’s back to land on his rear end, squeezing firmly. Aquamarine purred in response and John predicted Irene would have no further trouble putting fitted trousers on him. “Now give the socks and shoes a try,” he added matter-of-factly, patting the slave before letting him go.

John went back to his laptop, or pretended to; despite his endorsement Aquamarine was going to resist the footwear, and if he did so in an entertaining way, John would be amused, Aquamarine would know it, and the task would never be accomplished. Instead John wanted the slave to know he would only regain his attention by doing as he was told, and dressing properly. Couldn’t walk through London barefoot, after all.

Molly was in charge of the socks and she made Aquamarine sit down in one of the deck chairs near John, kneeling to drag the socks onto his unwilling feet. They were long and elegant, like his hands, and apparently just as capable of mischief, if Molly’s noises of frustration were anything to go by. “There, now don’t take them off!” she insisted.

John glanced over to check and did a double-take at Molly’s hands. “Did he scratch you?” he asked in concern, leaning down to take one of her red-streaked hands in his. Aquamarine whimpered in protest but John ignored him.

“He has long toenails,” Molly sighed with exasperation.

“Well, we’ll have to get them trimmed sometime,” John decided. Irene snorted, imagining the work _that_ would be. Aquamarine frowned at the idea as well.

John pulled Molly up from the deck and sat her on his lap. “Did you get any rest?” he asked solicitously. “You should take a nap later.” He brushed a stray hair back from her face, enjoying her shy smile at the attention. Molly was the quiet one, the one who was always doing things for others, obeying the rules, not causing trouble. It was sadly easy to overlook her. But when she was really happy she lit up the room, and John loved to see that.

Both Aquamarine and Irene made noise beside him. They were two of a kind, really, both dramatic and attention-seeking. Obviously John didn’t mind those traits, either—he was looking forward to watching them play together, their competitiveness could be quite combustible. Which was not really something he should be thinking about while holding Molly.

He spared the other two a glance. “Yes, good job with the socks,” he told Aquamarine faintly. “Shoes next.” Then he went back to Molly and his laptop.

Irene started out by kneeling in front of Aquamarine as Molly had, her flirtatious looks keeping him in place. But he really didn’t like the shoes and he twitched away from them, ending up with his feet dangling over the arm of the chair. Irene huffed and changed position. Aquamarine tipped his head back over the other arm, trying to get someone’s attention. John ignored him except for a quick progress check. “You want to buy anything online?” he offered to Molly. “Did you get to the bookstore?”

Deprived, Aquamarine continued his antics, squirming away from Irene until he was actually upside-down in the chair, his back resting on the seat and his feet waving freely above his head. It did not look very comfortable to John, but he figured this was Aquamarine’s own problem. Gritting her teeth in determination not to be outplayed, Irene stood and went behind the chair, trying to capture a foot for the shoe she carried.

Aquamarine had rather long legs and was not always careful with them; one flailing foot came a little too close for comfort to John and he decided he had to intervene. “Enough playing,” he told Aquamarine evenly, grabbing his leg. Molly quickly retreated to a safe distance as John pinned the leg against the back of the chair and gave the slave a steady look. “Aquamarine, you have to wear shoes if you want to walk around and see the modern world.” Irene seized the opportunity to shove a Doc Marten onto the trapped foot, and Aquamarine whined. “I’m sure it will be uncomfortable at first,” John acknowledged. “If you don’t want to wear the shoes, you’ll have to crawl around inside all day like a little savage, because the people who get to go out are the ones who can walk in _shoes_.”

Aquamarine pouted; but he held still while Irene put the other shoe on him. Then he slowly swung around until he was sitting upright in the chair again, getting used to the feeling of the heavy boots on his feet. Irene tapped her foot impatiently behind the chair, but John merely watched, letting Aquamarine adjust. Awkwardly he pushed himself out of the chair, standing in the boots and trying to get more comfortable all over again. Irene sighed loudly and John held out his hand to her, letting her settle gracefully on his lap.

“At least they’re not high heels, hmm?” he suggested to her.

“They’d be easier to get on, at least,” she grumbled, refusing to sympathize, and John rubbed her knee lightly.

Aquamarine scooted his feet forward an inch or so. “Don’t shuffle,” John advised him. “Pick your feet up all the way.” Aquamarine lifted one foot far higher than necessary and put it down, then did the same with the other. John pulled Irene’s face against his shoulder to muffle her derisive giggle, but Aquamarine heard it anyway and glared at her. “No, you’re doing well,” John assured him. “You just need some practice. Walk around a bit more.”

Aquamarine turned and took several almost normal steps with great confidence, and John nodded. Then suddenly he tripped over a boot and fell face-first onto the deck with a smack that made John wince. He stopped Molly and Irene from going to him, though, waiting to see how he reacted. After a moment Aquamarine rose up on all fours, shook himself, and clambered gracelessly to his feet, jaw clenched with determination. He started walking again and John relaxed.

“See, he’ll get it,” he soothed Irene, who was still looking peeved over the whole adventure. “You picked out very nice clothes for him. Mrs. Hudson gave you the sizes?” Somehow the housekeeper always seemed to know the proper fit.

Irene nodded, appreciating the praise. “He wouldn’t wear pants, though, Master,” she smirked, “but I didn’t think those were essential.”

“No, he didn’t like them much this morning, either,” John recalled dryly, and Irene laughed. “Don’t stomp, Aquamarine,” he suggested. “You’re doing really well. Try walking around in the grass.”

Attempting to follow this advice led Aquamarine to pitch right off the edge of the deck into the yard, but he popped back up right away and started clumping around. “Are you wearing sunscreen?” John asked Irene. Her response seemed to indicate no. “Go put some on if you’re going to stay outside,” he told her, pushing lightly on her back.

“What about _you_ , Master?” she shot back tartly.

“Well, you can bring me some,” he allowed. “Molly, see if you can catch him and put some on him, the sun is getting fierce out here.” Nothing compared to the desert they’d just been in, but one didn’t want to get complacent.

Aquamarine was now racing back and forth across the yard, regaining his natural grace as he got used to the weight of the shoes. John figured he would, as soon as he accepted their necessity. Wildlings were as intelligent as anyone else, though good luck getting people like his mother to believe that; and Aquamarine was exceptional, no matter what his origins. John grimaced as this reminded him of Mycroft Holmes’s comments. That was not a man given to idle chit-chat. He didn’t seem like the sort to be interested in owning a wildling, though, even after John had tamed him. And John was already beginning to wonder if he might not keep Aquamarine permanently, instead of selling him on. He had to see how he got along with the girls better, though. They were John’s first priority.

Molly tentatively walked out into the yard with the tube of sunscreen, trying to motion Aquamarine over. He changed direction too abruptly and landed in a tangled heap at her feet. John could see he was frustrated with himself but he stilled when Molly knelt down to help him, mindful of hurting or startling her. That was a good sign; Molly had been through a lot in her life, more than John liked to think about, but she still retained her kind heart somehow. She could just be a little skittish sometimes.

“Good boy, you’re a good boy, aren’t you,” Molly was telling Aquamarine as she spread the sunscreen over his face and neck. Irene was too independent for Molly to coddle, but Aquamarine seemed to enjoy it so far. John saw him lick her hand, then twist his face up as he tasted the sunscreen, and he tried not to laugh. Molly did, though, in a pleasant way that didn’t seem to irritate the other slave. Then Aquamarine was off and running around the yard again.

Irene finally returned from the house—naturally she’d changed clothes, to something with a little more sun protection though it could hardly be called modest. “Sunscreen, Master?” she offered innocently, and John let her apply it to his face and neck, enjoying the massage she added in. Suddenly her nails dug into his skin. “Oh, look what he’s doing,” she tattled in annoyance, and John saw Aquamarine trying to climb the oak tree. “He’ll tear his new clothes!”

“He’s fine, Irene. Could you not—” John indicated the red marks her nails were no doubt leaving on his shoulders.

She released him quickly. “Oh, sorry, Master!” He shook his head and offered her a chair. “He’s just very contrary.” John raised an eyebrow at her; if she understood how ironic he found her complaint, she refused to let on.

Molly joined them, watching Aquamarine worriedly. “Should he be climbing that tree, Master?” she asked, and Irene looked smug.

John resisted rolling his eyes. He was glad they were concerned about Aquamarine; sometimes they didn’t take to new slaves well, even those who seemed more compatible, on the surface, than a wildling. “He’s fine,” he assured them, though he found himself watching Aquamarine’s ascent closely. It was slower this time, and his shoes occasionally slipped on the branches the way his bare feet hadn’t. He disappeared behind the leaves, portions of the tree shaking to indicate where he was. Only when he reemerged on his way back down did John relax slightly, and realize he’d been tense at all.

On the final branch Aquamarine lost his footing before he could grab elsewhere with his hands, and he thumped to the ground—only a couple of feet, but still. “No, I’ll go check on him, you stay here,” John told the girls, rising from his seat. This was another one of those times when the slave would _not_ want a fuss made, John decided.

Fortunately Aquamarine was shaking it off and getting up before John even made it out to him. He plopped back down when he saw John coming, though, sitting flat on the ground as he discovered the shoes made it difficult to kneel comfortably.

John sat down next to him. “You alright?” he checked.

Aquamarine sighed and nodded. “ _Shoes_ ,” he said with loathing.

“You’ll get used to them,” John predicted. “Wear them for a while every day. You’ve given them a good workout today.” He checked his watch. “You’ve worn them about an hour. You can take them off if you like.”

Aquamarine made a pleased noise. Then he held out one foot to John. “Oh no, _I’m_ not going to do it,” John denied. Immediately Aquamarine looked to the girls on the porch, who were just waiting for the signal to pay attention to him. “No,” John told him firmly. “You can learn to take them off and put them on yourself. The laces have been tied, see? Irene didn’t even make them very tight.” She’d been unable to see what she was doing at the time, after all. “And, keep them clean,” John added, as Aquamarine picked at the knots. “Don’t track dirt into the house.”

John watched as the slave freed first one foot, then the other, from the shoes and socks. As soon as he’d done so Aquamarine flopped back on the ground, stretching his arms out with a whimper that suggested delicious freedom from imprisonment. John laughed a little, and his eye was caught by the bare skin exposed as Aquamarine’s shirt rode up above his jeans. The slave smirked when John’s gaze flicked up to his face and John rolled his eyes.

“I’m not sure where you’re going to sleep tonight,” John commented idly, since his thoughts had apparently strayed in that direction. Aquamarine propped himself up on his elbows, frowning. “There’s only three bedrooms,” John went on. “My mum’s and mine, and the girls share the third one—” Aquamarine went from stretched-out and relaxed to curled up in a moment. “What’s wrong?” John asked him suddenly, reaching for him. “Are you hurt? Did you hit your head when you fell?” His fingers slid delicately into Aquamarine’s hair, gently probing for any bumps.

Aquamarine snarled at him, baring his teeth, and John clamped his hand down on the back of his neck. “That’s enough,” he said, completely mystified by Aquamarine’s behavior. “If you’re hurt, tell me where.” He could speak perfectly well.

Aquamarine shook his head. “You’re not hurt?” John interpreted. He relaxed his grip to massage the back of his neck instead. “Then what’s wrong? Come on.”

“Sell?” Aquamarine asked in a quiet voice, staring at his knees.

“Sell,” John repeated, frowning. Or was it ‘cell,’ like a living cell, or a prison cell? Aquamarine made a noise of frustration. “Alright, I’m not sure what you mean,” he admitted, trying to be patient. “You’re very tense all of a sudden. Can you come here? Lie down.” He got Aquamarine to lie down on his side with his head in John’s lap, though the slave still insisted on keeping his knees drawn up tight. John glanced idly at the gap this made in his clothes, now at his lower back. “Trust Irene to get the low-rise jeans,” he muttered, stroking Aquamarine’s hair. “Now what’s the problem? You were fine until I mentioned the sleeping arrangements—”

Any amount he’d relaxed, Aquamarine tensed up again. “You might have to sleep on the couch in the living room,” John pressed on helplessly, “or in the tent, in your own room, or mine if you prefer—” He was not really addressing Aquamarine’s concern directly, he could see. Well if the bloody man refused to _speak_ —Suddenly Aquamarine reached behind his neck and unclasped his collar, letting it fall into John’s lap. His eyes said this gesture was meaningful, and moreover that John was slow for not understanding him. John really appreciate the last part; it was so hard to chastise someone for how they _looked_ at you.

“Oh, _sell_ ,” John suddenly realized. Slave collars came off when slaves were sold to new owners. “You’re worried I’m going to sell you soon?” The way Aquamarine’s gaze skittered away was answer enough. “Why? Because I said—not because I said you wouldn’t be sharing my bed tonight!” He couldn’t stop some disbelief from entering his tone; obviously feeling mocked, Aquamarine turned away from him stiffly.

“Oh, stop,” John advised, rubbing his shoulder. “Put your collar back on. We’re at my _mother’s_ house. I’m not going to have _sex_ here.” He couldn’t even say the word very loudly in her backyard. “And neither is anyone else. Don’t worry, it’s a short visit,” he added, perhaps more quickly than he’d meant. “I think we’ll leave the day after tomorrow, and go to my flat in London. Have you ever heard of London? It’s a very large city.” John knew he was rambling at this point, but he was trying to convey to Aquamarine that he was being included in these plans. “Everyone has their own room and bathroom at my flat, so you won’t have to share with anyone. Hey.” He leaned down over Aquamarine, trying to catch his eye. “If I decide to sell you I will let you know well in advance, alright?” Being sold was often a terrifying experience for a slave, and not a fear to be dismissed—even if the current master was bad, at least they were _known_ ; the next one might be even worse.

“Hey.” He stroked Aquamarine’s cheek until the slave looked at him. “I do often buy slaves to train, and sell them on. Molly and Irene aren’t going anywhere, though. You can ask them how it works. I promise it will not be a surprise.” John resisted making any remarks about how Aquamarine still had a long way to go in his training, as this might discourage him from trying. “Now put your collar back on.”

Slowly Aquamarine did so, and John let him sit up. “Those clothes do look rather good on you,” he told the slave, then leaned in close to purr in his ear. “I think they’d look better off, though.” Regaining his cheeky attitude somewhat, Aquamarine raised an eyebrow in challenge, evoking the ’no sex’ rule John had just mentioned. “Sleep in the tent,” John decided, “and maybe I’ll come see you tonight. Now pick up your shoes and socks, and go inside.” No doubt Molly and Irene would love to get him cleaned up before teatime.


End file.
